


Possessed

by BlueEyesBlueSkies



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I don't know what I'm doing here, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romance, Unlikely Pairing, but i like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:23:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7322308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyesBlueSkies/pseuds/BlueEyesBlueSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As she sucked in a breath, Sansa could only part her lips in horror, as the blood rushed down from her face and her hands began to shake while her stomach roiled and revolted. Sansa had the distinct impression she was about to be sick, and with barely contained terror her eyes started to flitter wildly for some solution.</p><p>A warm hand slid into her own, graceful fingers twining through hers, shocking her so suddenly she felt her nausea retreat immediately. Bending her neck to look down at the barely roughed fingers cradling her own, Sansa saw Lord Bolton’s thumb begin to trace lazy circles over the knuckles on the back of her hand, and she felt the calming effect of those circles seep into her very bones. With a deep breath, a tightened grip on the hand of her groom, and a silent prayer to the gods old and new, Sansa opened her mouth and repeated her vows. <br/> </p><p>A Roose Bolton/Sansa Stark story. </p><p>UPDATE 6/29/16: Thanks to your kind words and gentle encouragement, I've turned this into a longer fiction! Please check out Possession: Extended Story if you enjoyed this one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possessed

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! I have developed a strange craving for Roose Bolton fics that involve romance without too much creepiness, and decided that while I may be one of the few who would be interested, I’m going to run with it anyways.
> 
> I’m making this a one-shot for now, but if there’s interest I am tempted to use this as a starting point for a larger work. Please drop a comment with your thoughts!
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> PS: If you enjoy the one-shot, please consider reading Possession: Extended Story!
> 
> Necessary Disclaimer:  
> I’m the author of this story. GRRM is the source of the original work. I don’t own anything. This story is simply intended for enjoyment of the readers. Please don’t sue me!

“Lady Stark,” the cold voice, barely above a whisper, sent a shiver of fear down her spine, and made her legs turn to jelly as she made her way into the tent to greet her betrothed. 

Sansa, ever the proper little bird, inclined her head in what she hoped appeared gracious, but likely just looked the jerk of someone about to have a fit. “Lord Bolton,” she replied in greeting, her voice overly loud, overly tight, lending itself more to a squawk than the demureness she so desperately prayed to the old gods and new for. 

While other members of her brother’s court piled into the tent, encircling them in the center, Sansa found the look in her future husband’s eyes had the noise all but fading to a distant hum. His head was tilted, smooth face blank and calculating, while his ice-like eyes pierced her in the candlelight. Sansa had the strong sensation the prey must feel when spotted and studied by the predator, and the faint flicker in his eyes with his nod of approval told her that her groom was quite pleased with his catch. 

With a narrow of the corners of the ice eyes locked on hers, Sansa had the distinct impression he was attempting to prompt her. Confusion graced her brow and she flicked her brow down in response. A sick feeling of dread washed through her, coiling until it bubbled in her stomach, when she saw the mask Lord Bolton wore dip down into a frown.

He was displeased, and a thousand thoughts flitted through Sansa’s mind, too quick to catch, but at the center of it all was a deep-rooted fear ingrained in her that he was about to strip and beat her, or worse, for whatever offense she had inadvertently just caused. 

“Sansa” her mother’s voice cut through the fog and fear, pulling her out of the depths of terror in which she’d begun to drown in those ice eyes.

“Sansa,” Lady Catelyn tried again, and Sansa noted with queer bemusement that her mother’s tone expressed a uniquely shrill quality, one she’d never heard before, one, which bespoke the miles of sorrow, she’d travelled and the miles she still had yet to go.

Sansa swallowed down the discomforting thought and blinked, eyes widening with recognition as she realized everyone in the tent was looking at her with faces that reflected mixtures of horror and unease. Her eyes flitted to her mother briefly before returning once more to Lord Bolton before her, and she tilted her head a fracture in question. 

“The Septon was attempting to guide you through your vows, my lady,” Lord Bolton replied, his voice so soft she felt herself leaning closer to him in spite of herself.

Until she processed his words, and felt herself flush crimson in shock and shame. Sansa’s head whipped to the left suddenly, and she wondered with more than mild concern at how she had managed to miss the entirety of her marriage ceremony to Lord Bolton. She carefully trained her eyes on the Septon’s face, watching his lips form the words, forcing her ears to listen, and when he settled his blank gaze on hers, she began to open her mouth to respond. 

As she sucked in a breath, Sansa could only part her lips in horror, as the blood rushed down from her face and her hands began to shake while her stomach roiled and revolted. Sansa had the distinct impression she was about to be sick, and with barely contained terror her eyes started to flitter wildly for some solution.

A warm hand slid into her own, graceful fingers twining through hers, shocking her so suddenly she felt her nausea retreat immediately. Bending her neck to look down at the barely roughed fingers cradling her own, Sansa saw Lord Bolton’s thumb begin to trace lazy circles over the knuckles on the back of her hand, and she felt the calming effect of those circles seep into her very bones. The tension drained out of her almost immediately, and she heard those around her release sighs of relief as they saw the color creep back into her cheeks and the light slip back into her eyes, as she looked down on the strong hand steadying hers. With a deep breath, a tightened grip on the hand of her groom, and a silent prayer to the gods old and new, Sansa opened her mouth and repeated her vows. 

Sansa heard the lord at her side repeat his vows, his words steady and unwavering, as she watched his thumb dance circles and trace patterns over her hand, weaving in and out and around her knuckles, lulling her into a sense of calm. With a gentle squeeze, Lord Bolton prompted her, and Sansa immediately tilted her face and blinked her blue eyes up at him, watching as he searched hers intently once more. Sansa swallowed and, with what little strength she could muster, squeezed his hand lightly in response. With a curt nod from her now husband, Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut while he took a stepper nearer and sealed their union with the faintest of pecks to her lips. 

Sansa heard the booming cheer of the Greatjon behind her, and those in attendance hesitatingly clapped, while her husband kept a careful hold on her hand, turning to present his new wife and lead her from the tent to the small feast. She felt like she was holding on to a lifeline, holding on for dear life, as the man who gave even a Septon unease cradled her small hand gently in his own, offering comfort only as he could to his new bride.

Roose was displeased that they’d married in the first place, annoyed and not a bit amused by the irony that the girl who was too good for his true born son was now his bride. How foolish of the Stark’s to think they could buy his loyalty with a pretty girl like he was some green country boy and not a man and lord grown. He had capitulated, of course, because it was not yet the time for open betrayal and rebellion, and Roose Bolton would not be forced to move before it was time. And with a sigh and a nod he had found himself standing like a fool in the middle of a tent in a war camp, waiting to greet his new bride. 

The look of pure terror on her face when she entered cracked a tiny fissure in his careful shell of disdain, calculation, and general distrust. He watched her, studied her as she stared into his eyes with a look that was borderline mad while the Septon completed the introductions and prompted her for her vows. And when she only continued to stare, no trace of recognition gracing her beautiful face, Roose startled with surprise that rather than anger coursing through him at the obvious slight, he felt pity instead.

Pity. The Lord of the Dreadfort, who’s banner was a flayed man. He, Roose Bolton, felt pity.

It was an uncomfortable feeling to say the least, and he felt as though a thousand beetles had taken root and crawled under his skin, rippling over him as he grappled with the emotion he’d only ever heard of with passing irritation. 

And when his beautiful new bride looked to him like he was her last prayer at escaping the madness she’d barely held at bay, he hadn’t even blinked when reaching out to take her tiny hand carefully in his own. She was ice cold, frozen to the touch, and he did not doubt that if he had reached her a moment later she would have vomited at his feet.

Instead, behind his shell of cold indifference, Roose found himself watching with slight amazement as his bride kept her gaze carefully turned towards their joined hands, shivering in what would only be considered delight as he traced his thumb over the porcelain skin and listened to her recite her vows. 

And then, as he squeezed her hand to pry her attention elsewhere, a second foreign feeling spread to join the first as he felt her hand communicate back to his own, squeezing as she raised her head and looked him squarely in the eye.

He felt proud.

Sitting next to his new bride now as he watched her pick at her plate, Roose internally scoffed at his own idiocy. He was actually, acutely proud of his new wife, of her strength of heart, of her ability to take hits and slights that would have had most men faltering and still she kept coming, kept surviving. He’d heard her tale as the little Imp delivered her to the camp in exchange for his one-handed brother. She’d been stripped bare in front of the entire court, beaten and bloodied, just barely escaping a public rape, and still, his lady wife’s back was straight, her shoulders strong, as she raised her head and gazed out upon the merriment before her at their wedding feast. 

What had once felt a slight, his King ordering him to marry his tossed away sister, whose very maidenhood could not even be confirmed, now felt a very gift from the gods. 

Sansa could feel her husband’s eyes on hers, always watchful, every studying, as he observed her picking at her plate and watching the soldiers dancing before them. She saw as the Greatjon led her lady mother out into the cleared space, and felt the corners of her mouth twitch into an unbidden smile, so small she was sure only her husband could see it, as she saw her mother laugh and pick up the steps of the dance. 

Her small smile grew a fraction wider as she felt her husband’s fingertips graze the sleeves of the arm closest to him, his touch lighter than a feather, until he carefully slipped his palm under her own. With a small sigh and an even further twitch in her lips, Sansa curled her fingers downward, weaving them through his, and she shifted in her seat until her arm just barely pressed against his own. The hum of approval drifting to her ear made her feel as though butterflies were now taking flight in her chest, and her eyes flicked quickly down to their fingers once more before her lips spread into a true smile for her husband. 

He hummed again as he watched with rapt amazement while the secret smile reserved only for him spread over her lips, and her cheeks flushed prettily as his thumb started to dance once again on her hand. Roose felt lighter than he had in decades, probably ever, in that moment, watching his new bride flush and smile from the touch of his hand and the press of his arm, until he watched her lip curl further up into nearly a snarl while all sparkle flew from her face. 

Roose growled in anger as he flitted his eyes toward whatever had sent the shadows back onto his wife’s face, and he felt his own lip twitch threateningly towards a snarled curl in response. 

In the middle of the clearing, bold as brass, Roose saw the stunted figure of the Imp, dancing with Robb Stark’s wife. And not just dancing. Roose, while his hand tightening imperceptibly to any who looked on, felt his stomach coil with disgust as he saw them share a laugh. 

He felt a small thumb start to circle slowly over the back of his hand, and all at once his growling ceased. He narrowed his eyes sharply as he tucked his head and stole a glance at his wife. 

Her face was stony, her eyes unflinching as she watched the Imp and her brother’s Queen dance and laugh like they’d many a memory and more before, but her body was calm, and her thumb was soothing as she tried, in her own little way, to ease the ruffled feathers of the beast of a man at her side.

Sansa understood all to well the growl her new husband bestowed upon the spectacle before them, and it was with unbridled pleasure that Sansa recognized her husband’s hatred matched her own. If it weren’t for the woman he’d stupidly married, Robb wouldn’t be in this mess with the Frey’s. And if it weren’t for the cripple cradling holding the Queen’s hands, Sansa was sure fewer Northmen, including her own dear father, would have had to die. 

Because for all his plotting and scheming, for his quick wit and sharp words, the Imp was reduced to what he really was the day the blade was swung and her Father’s head rolled onto the ground, coming to rest at the Imp’s own two feet as he gaped his jaw like a fish. He was a stupid, bloody fool.

Sansa felt the air shift around her, and then her husband’s breath was fluttering the hair covering her ear. “We will have our revenge, my lady,” he breathed the promise into her very soul, and with a hum of pleasure Sansa made known her delight. She delicately squeezed his fingers once more, and thought that perhaps she’d been wed to the man she was supposed to be with all along. 

He pulled back slightly to watch the smile grace her face once more, the darkness for a moment at bay, before he leaned in once again to whisper in his wife’s ear. “Shall we retire, my lady?”

His question sent an odd wave of heat roll through her, and Sansa felt her chest, neck and cheeks flush as she gave him a small nod of agreement. As she pushed up with her legs to stand, she felt an uncomfortable twitch between her thighs, while the butterflies took flight once more beneath her breast. Her husband kept a careful hold of her hand and nodded to his King, before leading his lady through the darkness back to his tent.

Sansa swallowed bravely as she walked where the flap had been swept back, and she held tightly to her husband’s hand as he led them to the table and lit the candle there, bringing a soft light into the room. It was sparse, but felt quite intimate in the soft light, and Sansa felt her eyes drawn to the enormous piles of furs on the cushioned mattress on the floor. 

Her husband’s thumb grazing over the bumps of her knuckles brought her Tully eyes up to his ice ones, and she felt her lips spread of their own accord to the secret smile she’d smiled only for him at their wedding feast. A slight darkening of the ice, a nearly imperceptible softening of the mask, and a tiny twitch his lips were her only clue that her husband was anything other than apathetic or bored.

But she knew better, could somehow see it all over his face. Her cold and calculating husband was very much present, and very much pleased.

She blinked shyly before turning to face him fully in the candlelight, the tremor in her fingertips held so carefully between his own the only indication she was a bundle of anxiety and nerves. Roose watched his wife lick the tip of her bottom lip, and he felt his groin tightly nearly to the point of pain as her lips spread once more into the smile that had his long since dead heart racing in his chest. 

With a smile that was borderline a smirk and a bit of a challenge in her eyes, his wife spoke words that he was sure would haunt his dreams in the most delicious way for the rest of his life.

“Would you care to help me undress, my lord, or should I send for assistance?” Her tone implied innocence, but her eyes were sparkling, and Roose was positive his new lady wife was giving him an ultimatum.

Undress me now and we move forward together, or send for assistance and be assured our bedding is naught but more than a means to an end.

So with a flick of his brow and a glint in his eyes, Roose Bolton stalked the careful steps of a hunter around to the back of his wife, loosening her grasp of his fingers as he trailed the tips up, so slowly, over the sleeve of her forearm, past her elbow, around the bump of her shoulder, and up to the curve of her neck, soft skin peaking up from the edging of lace on her gown. As he slipped his fingers in under her hair to trace a heated trail over the back of her neck to the top of her laces, Roose let out a hum of approval as he felt his wife shudder.

Sansa’s eyes had long since fluttered shut, her breath was coming short in her chest, and she felt she would die of anticipation as her husband gently began to untie the laces of her dress. His touches were delicate and hauntingly quick, flashes and trails of fingers, and Sansa found herself covered in bumps and the hairs raised on her skin as she ached for more. More of what, exactly she wasn’t precisely sure, but she had the distinct impression it was only her husband who could provide.

Sansa sucked in a sharp breath when she felt the final laces give way, and a shudder rolled through her shoulders as her lord husband gently pushed the gown over her shoulders, down her arms and waist, and down her legs to gather in a pile of lace and velvet around her feet. 

She felt her husband sweep his nose through the hair at the back of her neck, and when she felt his soft lips press a gentle kiss to the sensitive skin on the nape of her neck, Sansa couldn’t contain her gasp and keening moan. 

Roose growled in response, a fierce wave of arousal and possessiveness for his lady wife dominating his thoughts as he felt her shiver and heard her sigh at his touch. And when she moaned as he pressed his lips once more to the spot at the back of her neck, Roose had to force himself not to spill his seed right there. 

“Turn,” he whispered into the shell of her ear, letting the tip of his tongue slip out to trace that delicate arch. He was rewarded with another gasp that ended on a fluttering sigh, and his wife turned slowly before him. 

Roose felt his carefully masked face go slack at the gift from the gods bestowed before him. His lady wife, dressed in naught but a white silk shift so thin he could see the pink of her areolas peaking out to tease him, was, quite simply, breathtaking. Her auburn curls danced and glittered in the light, to the point where he was sure they held their own flame and lit the room all on their own. Her porcelain skin shown. The graceful arches and curves of her body had him trying to wet his mouth, which had gone suddenly dry. And, as his eyes travelled up to see the dancing mirth on his lady wife’s countenance, Roose very nearly forgot to even breathe.

Sucking in a shaky breath and grasping for any straw left of control, Roose raised his eyebrow in blatant challenge to the siren before him. Her brow fluttered in confusion for only a moment until he held his arms out at his sides, and then she grinned like a Cheshire cat as she stepped closer to trail her fingertips over his doublet. 

Sansa traced over her new husband’s broad chest, swooping across the toned muscles fluttering even over the layers of fabric between them. She brought her hands to the buttons of his doublet, deftly undoing them one by one, as she tried to steady her shaking hands. She blinked rapidly and forced a full breath as the last button popped free, until she brought her hands up to carefully push the doublet off from her husband’s broad shoulders, letting it drop to pool with her dress at their feet. 

Without the extra layer, Sansa could see through the fine linen of his shirt that her husband’s lean body was exceptionally crafted, muscle after muscle rippling over his frame, and she traced her eyes over his chest until she came down to the marked bulge jutting out of his breeches.

Sansa’s cheeks flamed as she felt a curious dampness start to wet the tops of her thighs, and she felt her womanhood clinch in unbidden, causing her to sharply suck in her breath. Her eyes fluttered shut before she felt a long finger tuck under her chin, and then she found herself staring into her husband’s eyes, eyes which had darkened to a shade of gray that had her pulse hammering away in her chest so loud she was sure he heard her.

After a searching look and a curt nod, Sansa watched his face lower, and her eyes fluttered back shut as she felt his lips capture her own. Her husband’s kiss now was nothing like the peck from their wedding, and Sansa felt her head start to spin when his soft lips slid and pressed and pulled and pushed over her own. His kiss was dominating in its lightness, teasing in pressure, and before long Sansa was gasping against him for air and twining her fingers at the nape of his neck through his thinning hair. Her lord husband growled, seizing the victory, and with a moan Sansa felt his tongue push into her mouth.

Whatever thoughts of shock had started flew quickly out of the tent as she felt him taste and plunder and tease her mouth, his tongue guiding hers in a dance that had her mewling and pulling and pressing until she realized they were flush against one another, a tangle of limbs as their bodies slid together in a frenzy. Pulling her head back with a cry and a gasp for air, Sansa hazily noted with satisfaction that her husband seemed just as lost in sensation and lust as she was. 

Until she saw his lips curl up into a predatory smile, one that sent a wave of delicious heat all the way down to curl her toes. She gave a startled cry of delight as suddenly her husband scooped her up into his strong arms and carried her over to their bed of furs. He growled and nipped playfully at her neck, and Sansa felt the first giggle she’d had in years bubble out of her chest. Leaning back to recline down beside her, her husband’s eyes glimmered as he saw the unfettered smile spreading over his wife’s beautiful face. 

Gods, he had been given the most alluringly beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And, what’s more, this enchanting creature not only was enjoying his attentions, but he realized with fresh amazement that she seemed to crave them. His wife was now hungrily pulling him down overtop her for another kiss, and he growled with desire as he slipped his palm down to the soft flesh of her thigh, trailing up to grasp the hem of silk. She sighed in pleasure as he pulled the garment up and over her lovely shoulders, a sigh ending on a drawn out moan as he bent his head to kiss the beautiful nipples the offending garment had shielded from him.

Beautiful, he whispered into her chest as he laved and suckled and nipped like a man starved at the teats of his wife. She was writhing beneath him, sliding her thighs together, desperate for release, a release, he realized with another growl, he was most assuredly desperate to give her. 

Sitting up to marvel at the wanton mess that had become of his wife, Roose roughly yanked his linen shirt up over his head. Intending to return and slowly pleasure his wife, he was startled when her soft hands suddenly slipped over the contours of his abdomen, teasing the muscles as she slid up to tangle her graceful fingers in the hairs of his chest. With a groan, Roose gave up any sense of control, and hastily unlaced his breeches, shifting his hips to push them off and toss them away from the furs. 

Sansa gasped at the sight of her husband, naked before her. His chest was magnificent roll after roll of tightly sprung muscle, smattered with coarse hairs. And when her eyes trailed down to the thickness hung between his thighs, she nearly swooned on the spot. Her eyes widened, partly in awe, partly in fear, at the enormity of the man before her. He was thick, and long, and swollen, with a drop oozing out of the tip. Unbidden, and of its own accord, Sansa saw her hand reach forward, fingertip touching that drop of liquid, smoothing it over the tip.

She watched her husband’s entire body shudder, his eyes briefly closing before opening with a raging fire of desire, and with alarm she quickly raised both hands to quickly press against his shoulders as he hovered over her. 

He hummed a soothing response as his strong hand slipped between her thighs, opening her as he settled himself between them, and Sansa flushed with alarm as that hand slid closer and closer to where she was damp and wanton, wet and waiting, for him.

As her husband’s hand slipped between her curls to coat his fingers in the wetness now nearly dripping between her thighs, Sansa arched her back on a keening moan. Her husband growled and panted in response, hovering over her as his graceful fingers began to play between her folds, until they swept over that bundle of nerves that had her nearly bolting up in pleasure off the pile of furs. Her husband captured her loud moan of pleasure with a kiss before settling himself firmly between her thighs, rubbing the tip of himself through her slickness as he brought her legs to wrap around his waist. 

Sansa panted as her eyes stared with fear into his, and he held himself steady at her entrance as he peppered her face with soft, reassuring kisses. Sighing in relaxation, Sansa pushed her palms up over her husband’s strong forearms, until she wrapped them around his neck and held him close above her. 

“Now, my lord,” she whispered softly, voice breaking on a cry as in one smooth stroke he pushed into her opening, broke her maidenhead, and claimed her as his own.

Roose tensed within her, eyes rolling at the tight sheath in which he found himself, and it was all he could do not to slam into his wife until he was spent. But she was tense as a bow around him, and he brought his lips down to kiss away the tears starting to slide down her cheeks. He continued his kisses, slowly making his way down her cheek, to the shell of her ear, past to the soft skin of her neck, and only once she sighed and shifted against him did he start to move.

His thrust were slow, controlled, and shallow, and Sansa found herself desperate for something, pleasure building and tightening in her belly. Without a thought, she shifted and writhed beneath him, begging him with her body until finally she moaned into his ear. “Please, my lord.”

Roose didn’t disappoint his lady, and with a groan he began to thrust in earnest, picking up his pace and loosening his control until she was crying with pleasure beneath him and he was slamming his hips into hers, holding her tight. Just as he was near his own release he felt her walls clamp down and clench around him, squeezing him nearly to the point of pain as his lady wife shuddered and came apart in his arms. She was screaming, yelling his name like a prayer as the world shattered around her, and with one strong thrust he was over the cliff, spilling his seed and moaning her name in response like a prayer.

Roose collapsed against his lady wife, gathering her to his side as he lay on his back and slowed his breathing. Stretching like a cat, she hummed contentedly and threw her leg over his broad thigh, rounding her body around him. 

“That was… Oh, that was… Wonderful, my lord,” she said with awe, and Roose had to stifle a chuckle. 

“I’m very glad you are… pleased, my lady,” he said quietly with amusement, smiling to himself as he pressed his cheek against her hair.

“Are you… I mean, was it… Are you pleased, my lord?” She whispered timidly to his chest, and this time Roose let his chuckle light up the room. 

“I am more pleased than you know, my lady. Though, I do believe you may call me by my name when we are alone. You have already, of course,” he said with amusement, smirking as he saw his wife raise her head to his and flush prettily to her toes. 

“Yes, my l- Roose,” she whispered with a small smile. “And, as you yourself seem comfortable with my name, please call me Sansa.”

He quirked a brow at the smug look on his lady wife’s face, and, though he would deny it to the grave, Roose found himself attempting to flirt with his beautiful young wife. “My Roose. That seems a bit possessive, my Sansa,” he teased her, soft voice nearly purring in her ear.

His wife bit her lip and smiled shyly as she laid her head back down to rest on his chest. “After that, perhaps I am in the mood to possess you, my lord,” she teased him, smiling with delight as she heard him chuckle once more. 

“The feeling is mutual, my Sansa,” he rumbled in seriousness, before bringing both arms to crush his wife to his chest. “The feeling is mutual.” 

And as his young wife drifted off to sleep in his arms, Roose couldn’t help the smirk of pride spreading over his face. While he was sure he didn’t deserve it, while he knew without a doubt his black soul hadn’t earned it, he found himself blessed all the same. His lady was really and truly a gift from the gods.


End file.
